


Pretty

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Awkward First Times, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Max and Furiosa are clueless, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Post-Movie(s), Premature Ejaculation, Vaginal Fingering, but they're working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: She’s asked and he’s said yes. She realises she has no idea how to get from agreeing to have sex to actually doing it.





	1. Chapter 1

Furiosa isn’t sure what to do next. She has Max in her room, alone together on a warm night. She’s asked and he’s said yes. Now she realises she has no idea how to get from agreeing to have sex to actually doing it.

The more he’s come back to the Citadel, the more they’ve circled around each other. The first time, she was pleased and surprised. He’s a creature of the wasteland, so she’d understood when he left the platform to go back to it. She hadn’t expected to see him again, though she’d thought of him often enough. The sisters made a fuss of him, which he both endured and enjoyed, she thinks, before he left again, heading west. 

After the second time, the girls tease Furiosa about it, raising eyebrows over how much time she and Max spent together, at work in the gardens and the garage or just in each other’s company. She shrugs it off, feeling that they’re deliberately missing the point.

By the third, she’s starting to wonder. Her own experience is both limited and bad, but she knows she’s very aware of him. When she looks up and catches him staring, she’s not sure how to handle it. It takes her a while to admit, even to herself, that perhaps she wants him. She’s gruff and then almost effusive, overcompensating. He looks bewildered. She kisses his cheek when he leaves.

The next time, neither of them mention the kiss. They work well together in the garage, perfectly in sync, back to being comrades in arms. It’s almost entirely a relief. She notices that the sisters have stopped teasing. 

“It would have happened by now, if it was going to,” the Dag says, off-hand. Furiosa is taken aback by how dented she feels: she didn’t want it ruled out so completely.

He looks at her. He doesn’t look away or look guilty when she notices, though eye contact sometimes spooks him. He’s not ogling. She learned, long ago, how to deal with aggressive and intrusive looks, with posturing for attention or prestige. Max isn’t doing that. He’s just focused on her, so quietly that she wonders if he’s even aware of it.

This time, he’s arrived in time to help with the harvest. Once the work is done, they hold a big party, with generous allowances of food and even some Vuvalini liquor. There’s singing, and music, and dancing. Max asks Furiosa to dance.

They start with a self-conscious shuffle, holding hands. Once they stop staring at their feet, they get better at it, bodies moving well to the beat. Getting into step is like finding the rhythm they share in battle, an instinctive sense of what to do next. For the second dance, they move closer, his hands on her waist, her bare nub on his shoulder. By the fourth, she’s close enough to feel the bulge in his leathers.

It’s a relief. An erection is not ambiguous: she doesn’t have to worry over what it means. Feeling brave, she drags him off to her room, and here they are. The silence is getting embarrassing. 

Max clears his throat. 

“Can I kiss you?” He leans in when she nods. His mouth is beautiful, full and lush, something she’s often found herself thinking about. The kiss is disappointingly messy: he has such a lot of tongue, muscular and wet, and she’s not sure what to do with her own. It takes several tries to get into a rhythm. Once they do, she starts to like it. He carefully puts his arms around her, kisses her throat as well as her mouth. She likes that immediately, the warmth of his lips and the way it makes her skin tingle. His hands move up from her waist, closer to her breasts. She makes an encouraging noise, leans into it.

She slides her own hand to his crotch, pleased to find him so hard under the flap of his trousers. When he hums, she can feel herself blushing. She works her hand inside the flap, but it’s tricky from this angle; he grunts when she pushes too hard.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. He kisses her again. She turns her hand, finds hot skin, strokes. She’s delighted by his moan, wonders if they should start undressing now. Then Max jerks under her hand, making a startled noise, and comes.

They’re both mortified. He looks so miserable, she wonders what she’s done to him. Her hand is sticky with come when she pulls it away. She doesn’t know what to do with it: doesn’t much like the feel of it on her skin, doesn’t want to wipe it on anything. 

“M’sorry,” Max says, voice thick. His cheeks are pink and plump with embarrassment, eyes darting everywhere but at her. “Just. You’re.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re really pretty.”

Furiosa laughs. She can’t help it; it’s so much the opposite of what she was afraid he’d say, what she was afraid he’d think. It’s probably stupid to be glad that he’s almost as clueless as she is, but she feels so relieved. There’s a strange, giddy happiness to knowing that it can go wrong and yet not be the end of everything. Maybe she isn’t broken, or maybe they both are, but it’s okay. 

She puts her nub around his neck and kisses him, clumsy but enthusiastic. He wraps his arms around her – though she notices he’s avoiding her hand, he doesn’t know what to do about it, either – and returns her kiss. He’s much better at that than she is. When they break apart, she smiles and leans her forehead against his. 

“You’re pretty, too,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out of a conversation on slack. Max’s line “You’re really pretty” was stolen from [raffinit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit).
> 
> Fic writer’s woe: I think it’s canon that [Max goes hamster-cheeked](http://kissthemgoodbye.net/movie/displayimage.php?album=402&pid=897176#top_display_media) when he’s feeling shy. But I can’t point this out because Furiosa is my pov character and I don’t think she’s ever seen a hamster.
> 
> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note tag and rating update.

They do need to clean up. Furiosa goes to the washstand to deal with her sticky hand. Max follows, walking a little carefully. Once she’s done, he takes her place at the washing bowl, matter-of-factly dropping his leathers.

She doesn’t know if she should look or not – if that would be intrusive, if turning away will make things awkward again. She hovers, then cautiously touches her nub to the small of his back. He starts, but doesn’t draw away, so she stays where she is and watches. He’s soaping and rinsing his thighs, cock and balls, brisk and efficient. She can see the weight of muscle, of his softened cock, the flush fading from his skin. He is so warm and so solid, brown and ruddy with health despite everything the wasteland has thrown at him. When she looks up again, he’s smiling at her.

“Do – do you want to stay?” She’s not used to sharing her bed, but she doesn’t want him to go. She feels warm when he nods immediately, no hesitation.

Max finishes washing, doing his best to clean the flap of his trousers. They both half-undress, removing boots and outer layers. Furiosa thinks of changing into her nightshirt, decides against it. Max takes off his brace, hangs his leathers over the bench to dry. He should probably oil them, but they can worry about that in the morning. When he gets into bed, he sits up against the wall.

“Been sleeping in my car,” he explains, though she’d already guessed why. “Takes a while to get used to a bed.” Furiosa decides to do the same. She’s found it helps, on bad nights, and she doesn’t want to be lying down with Max up above her. She trusts him, she does, but she doesn’t need any more reason to feel vulnerable. She switches off the lamp, gets in beside him. 

“G’night,” Max says, oddly formal. Furiosa grunts in response. She hopes he doesn’t snore. She hopes she doesn’t.

They don’t sleep well, but it’s not as bad as it might be. She wakes several times – at least once, he’s lying far too still to be asleep – but neither of them have nightmares. It’s strange having someone else there, feeling him shift and sigh, his weight and his body heat just inches away from her. Each time Furiosa wakes, she finds they’ve both slid further down the bed, less upright and less defensive than before. She’s foolishly embarrassed that she has to get up to use the sandbucket – she’d drunk a lot of water, hoping to avoid a moonshine hangover – but she’s not about to lie awake with her legs crossed.

When she comes back, he’s almost snoring, his breath heavy in his throat. It’s close enough to morning that she can just about see his face, unguarded and easy in sleep. His rumpled frown lines will still be there, his scars, even if she can’t see them in this light. The weight in her chest is something between desire and protectiveness. She’s got used to both feelings, lately, but it’s still hard, handling them at the same time. Climbing cautiously back in, she closes her eyes and tries to make herself sleep again.

She’s surprised to find that it’s worked. The next time she wakes, it’s full day, though from the light and the quiet it’s early. She’s lying flat, sleepy and comfortable. She turns her head to find Max watching her, his face careful and soft. She can’t help smiling. 

He leans in to kiss her. No heavy tongues – which is just as well, she’s not sure how her breath is this morning – just his mouth on her cheek and chin. She murmurs, pushes into it.

When their lips do meet, his breath is a little sour, but so is hers and she doesn’t really mind. She slides her arms around him, pulls him closer. A grind of her hips makes him grunt. She loves feeling that, knowing that he’s responding to her. She’s pretty sure, even from this angle and through her heavy trousers, that he’s hard again. She’s wet. Her body is reminding her that, whatever else happened, she didn’t do anything last night.

Max skims his hand down her side, rests it on her hip. 

“I could. Or.” He’s offering. “Would you like – ” She doesn’t know how long it will take him to get to the point – because he’s out of practice with words, she thinks, not from doubt or hesitation. Pulling her own hand back from his waist, she undoes her leathers, pushing them down. 

Very slowly, Max moves his hand over her belly, watching her to be sure he’s not doing anything she doesn’t want. She turns onto her back, letting her legs fall wider, feeling the warmth of his hand as he strokes down. 

He’s slow, not tentative. Once his hand is between her legs, he parts her lips, stroking between them, spreading wetness before circling her clit. He quickly finds a rhythm, works out how much pressure she likes. He’s lying curled against her, but not over her, close without being claustrophobic. Her breath is coming faster, her body starting to twitch.

It’s good, but it’s taking a while. She knows her body doesn’t always respond quickly, that it can be stubborn when she’s chasing an orgasm. There’s an extra shiver from being stroked – that it’s someone else’s hand, that it’s Max’s hand, that he’s so focused on her – but being on the brink is still some distance from tipping over the edge. It doesn’t help to think about it. She can feel herself tensing up, getting further rather than closer. She grinds up against his fingers, trying to recapture her momentum.

“Nearly there,” she gets out, on a gasp, willing it to be true. She will not sound apologetic, she will not.

His hand slows.

“Not in any hurry.” His voice is a deep, lazy growl, a rumble she can feel in her belly. He’s still stroking, exploring her, kissing her shoulder and her neck. She realises, with a jolt, that he’s repeating the touches that worked best last night, trying out others. He’s learning her, his fingers teasing as well as reassuring. He hums when she starts to relax again, a heated buzz against her skin.

She doesn’t know how long it takes, after that. He’s still kissing her, still working at her; she’s wetter and wetter, sweat between her thighs, her nipples hard. The shivers become shudders, and then she is coming, eyes shut and head tipped back, his lips on her throat and his fingers on her clit. 

When she opens her eyes, he’s watching her, soft but hungry. Her cunt clenches, pulsing against his hand. He starts to stroke again. The aftershocks are still coming, not quite another orgasm but enough to keep her gasping. He goes on until he’s sure she’s finished, until her breath steadies.

Even then, she doesn’t recover at once. However much she’d wanted him – and she had, she does – she’s not used to letting anyone so close, to revealing so much of herself. With her shirt still on and her leathers round her knees, she feels stripped bare. It’s not horrible – it's only scary because she likes it so much – but it’s a lot to take in. She wants to cling to him. She wants to run away and put herself back together, not look him in the eye until she’s got all her armour back on. 

She compromises by trying to do both. Turning to press against him, she buries her face in his shoulder. He puts his arm around her, not too tight, rests his chin on top of her head.

She’s close enough to be aware that his cock is hard against her thigh. He pulls his hips back a little, clearly trying to avoid poking her. It helps: because he’s giving her space, because he wants her, because it makes her want to laugh again. She thinks of trying to stroke him, but that didn’t go well before. Instead, she hooks two fingers into the waistband of his shorts, cautious.

“Would you like –” She pulls his shorts down when he nods, feels his cock springing up hard and urgent, hot against her skin when she brushes against him by accident. She moves her hand away.

“I could –” He’s offering to get out of bed, which she doesn’t want at all.

“No. Here.” She’s blushing, blood hot under her skin from her throat to her hairline, but she’s determined to be clear, to own what she wants. “Can I watch?” She’s not actually looking at him, still too embarrassed. His mouth feels cool and soft against her cheek.

He goes on kissing her for a while, until she’s a little more under control. 

“Yeah.” She’d almost forgotten her own question, but the roughness of his voice goes right through her. When he reaches for his cock, it’s with fingers that must still be wet from her slick.

She feels self-conscious, watching him stroke, but she wants to see, doesn’t want a repeat of last night. To be honest, thinking practically makes it easier. Learning technique through observation is something she’s done all her life, a basic of Vuvalini teaching. It’s how she picked up most things, from plaiting hair to fixing engines; it’s what helped her survive her thousands of days in the Citadel. So it’s natural to pay close attention to what Max is doing – pressure here, turn of the wrist just there, noting the speed and the weight. It means she can keep embarrassment at bay, mostly. 

It’s also very sexy, watching him work on himself, letting himself let go for her. She leans in, snuggling against him. He murmurs, strokes a little faster.

Almost automatically, she glances up at the sound. Her barriers crumple at the way he’s looking at her, the heat of it, as he touches himself. She can feel herself blushing again.

She’s still looking at him when he comes, sees his face twist and go slack, his eyes closing. She’s vaguely aware that she might have missed something, whatever his hand was doing, that she might like to know for next time. She’s not sorry.

Max is sprawled out, panting; it’s all so much better than last night. She gives him a moment before kissing him again – not full on the mouth, but over his jaw, his nose. He looks lazy and happy, losing tensions she hadn’t really noticed until they were gone. She recognises the feeling from her own body, the way she’s both buzzing and at ease.

They need to wash again. They still don’t undress fully, but it’s definitely getting easier, being around each other. She wonders how long it will take before she gets his shirt off him. She wonders if he’ll stay long enough to let her try.

It’s still early, still quiet. There’s no need to get up yet. Most of the Citadel will be sleeping late today, recovering from the party and from the work of the harvest. This time, when Max gets into bed, he lies down easily, turns to her with his arms open. Rather carefully, she nestles against him. It takes them a moment to get properly comfortable, curled around each other without leaning too heavily. Furiosa thinks of the way they had stayed carefully separate all night, and cuddles a little closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
